


maybe i'll save you when there's nowhere left to go

by psychosomatic86



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Dimensions, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Groundhog Day, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Yoglabs, but more Russian Doll bc GHD is pathetique by comparison lmao, i guess, oof ow bone hurting juice, uhhhhow to tag uhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-10-30 09:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17826110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: He’ll keep dying until he can’t anymore. Or until he’s not supposed to. Whichever comes last.





	1. missing constant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kasparovv (slytherintbh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/gifts).



“Honeydew!”

 

“Yep?”

 

“It’s still out of order, friend!”

 

You watch, bemused, as Honeydew dejectedly returns his styrofoam coffee cup back atop the stack of them.

 

“S’it ever gonna be in order?” He asks, and you shrug.

 

“Maybe? Dunno when the last time was I called maintenance. Would hate to bother them again if it’d been so soon, yeah?”

 

You flap your hands as you talk. Honeydew rolls his eyes good naturedly. It’s all very you.

 

“Maybe if ye’d let me have a go,” Honeydew says.

 

“Ha!” You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the outburst, but are quick to emerge from behind it and continue, “No dice, friend, you’d burn the bloody place down.”

 

“Aye, thanks fer the vote a confidence.”

 

“You’re quite welcome.”

 

You beam ear to ear at your friend, and, of course, as always, win out.

 

With an exasperated sigh, Honeydew, trots away from the diabolical coffee machine and takes up his dutiful position beside you.

 

“So what’s on th’genda t’day,” he asks, and you drape a hand on his shoulder, as much affectionate as it is pretense to steer the both of you out of the breakroom.

 

“I don’t actually know,” you say. “I was almost sure I had something lined up. Bit out of sorts this morning, lost my diary, so we’ll just have to improvise!”

 

“I hate it when you say that,” Honeydew grumbles.

 

“Sure sure,” you say, never really paying your friend’s apprehensions any mind because, hey, you always have a good time of things, right? And you have the clones for back up, now, although - hm - maybe you should go check the master’s just in case. New program and all that, does well to make sure it’s all in order.

 

“Hm…” you hum to yourself and consider the tedium of it.

 

Ah, you’ll pop down the bay later. There was something important on the agenda, anyway, and that you can’t remember what it is is really starting to rankle.

 

“You a’right there, mate?” Honeydew asks as you, too busy scrounging your memory, offer nothing by way of conversation on the way down the long, long hall.

 

“Hm? Yes, perfectly fine, friend.”

 

Another bout of silence and thinking that comes up moot.

 

“Say,” you say, “how about let’s drop by MD, yeah?”

 

“What fer?”

 

“Well, I can’t bloody remember what was on today so-”

 

“You really gotta start keepin better track’a your shit, mate.”

 

You playfully cuff the back of Honeydew’s head as you pause at the elevator bank. Honeydew grins.

 

“I like things in tangible writing, thank you very much. Far more trustworthy.”

 

“Says the nutter with a bajillion drones at ‘is disposal.”

 

You wave a dismissive hand, “That’s government business, friend. You don’t see me writing personal effects with bombed out corpses, eh?”

 

Horrified, Honeydew asks, “Why would you even say that?”

 

You roll your eyes.

 

“Don’t worry about it, friend.”

 

It’s still all very _you_.

 

The elevator arrives without ceremony, delivers you both to the appropriate floor, and you enter Testificate MD’s office without knocking, like you always do.

 

“Morning, doctor!” You announce, and the doctor, hunched over behind his desk and rifling through the lower drawer of a filing cabinet, startles terribly and jumps a foot.

 

“Ah, hm, _hm_ , Dr. Xephos, yes, hello,” he says, breathless and nasally and very much disgruntled.

 

You offer a smile he never returns.

 

“Yes, well, I’m very much in the middle of something,” he grumbles, scratching his bald head, then the tip of his oversized nose, then his head again.

 

You clap your hands together, and he startles again, and you say, “Ah that’s fine, we won’t be long. Just wondering if we had anything scheduled with you today. Misplaced my damn diary, so I’m out of sorts a bit.”

 

He grumbles and scratches away and flicks through his own planner, and your mouth grows sore from the put on smile.

 

“I don’t think so,” he eventually answers.

 

“No,” he says more definitively.

 

“In fact,” he continues. “I’m due to have a new intern starting today.”

 

“Oh?” You say, because this wasn’t run by you, at least you don’t recall as much.

 

“This wasn’t run by me,” you say. “At least, I don’t recall as much.”

 

MD spares you a bored glance.

 

“That scholarship you started a while back,” he says. “Was rather more airtight than we realized, so I’ll be taking on a few interns here and there.”

 

Ah yes, you remember now. It was a ploy to keep prying eyes off your less scrupulous trails of income, but you didn’t expect much to come of it but a few thousand siphoned off to some underprivileged demographic every month. Keep the accounts balanced and all that. Oh well, if it wards off the HMRC, you’ve no qualms with a personal coffee assistant.

 

Heretofore keeping himself sparse, Honeydew chimes in, “Well that’ll be inch’ristin’, eh?”

 

“Certainly,” you agree.

 

“Well, sorry to bother,” you tell MD as you steer yourself and Honeydew for the door. “Let me know how it goes today, wouldn’t want anyone untoward.”

 

“I assure you,” assures Testificate MD, “I selected the most harmless of the applicants.”

 

Well, that could mean anything by the doctor’s standards, but you’re not in the mood to argue semantics. You still don’t have answers about what the damn hell you wanted to get up to today, and it’s already half nine. So much of the day wasted on trivial nonsense, _tch_.

 

“Great, we’ll convene sometime anyway,” you tell MD, and then bustle yourself and Honeydew back toward the lift.

 

“You alright there?” Honeydew asks.

 

“Fine,” you answer. “Just out of sorts.”

 

Increasingly so, in fact, in the short span of time between the breakroom and the visit to MD, it feels like a million things have occured and you’ve processed none of them, so it’s all just swirling around you in a terrible muddle.

 

Entering the elevator, you barely wait for Honeydew to join you before you mash the button for Level 9, intent on finding that damn diary. Honeydew says nothing more, and you’re grateful for it. Something’s set your teeth on edge, and you fear you might snap.

 

The lift whisks you upward, and then, with a groan, it doesn’t, coming to a shuddering standstill. The fluorescents dim out and the emergency lights kick on a dull blue glow. You curse under your breath.

 

“That’s… new,” says Honeydew, and laughs.

 

You throw a withering glare that he cannot see in the low light.

 

“Sure is, friend,” you say half heartedly. “Stupid, bloody maintanence, I swear to christ.”

 

“Yeesh, it’s all good,” Honeydew says. “We got that ‘mergency phone, yeah?”

 

Before you can confirm this, the car gives a jostle, a lurch, and then continues its smooth ascent, the lights flooding back on, and you blink through the sudden brightness.

 

“Aye, there we go,” says Honeydew, and he gives you an affirming grin.

 

“Mm, I’ll still be making some calls,” you say.

 

MD’s office is below ground level, so it’s taking some time, as per, to reach your and Honeydew’s shared flat. Really, it’s no more than a half moment, but it feels an age until finally the lift halts its hydraulics and releases you into the living room of the flat.

 

“I’ll just be a moment,” you say, making haste for your bedroom.

 

Yeesh, it’s a bloody mess. You’re not the neatest pin the world, but this is a bit much. The bedding’s half exploded from the mattress across the floor, there’s an empty bottle of gin lolling on its side atop the bedside table. You enjoy a drink every evening, sure, but something must have had you in a way last night, especially to warrant this mess. Was there a celebration on? You don’t recall any massive breakthroughs with the latest projects. _Ugh_ , and where _is_ that damn diary?

 

“Everythin’ a’ri - whoa jeez the hell’d happen here?”

 

Honeydew’s stood, looking faintly alarmed, in the doorway, and you hurry over, arms outstretched to block his immediate view of the mess.

 

“Nothing nothing,” you say, and herd him back out to the living room. “Got pissed last night, I guess, so ’m going to tidy up, yeah? So you just go on back down the breakroom. I’ll join you in a few.”

 

“Uhh, okay?” Honeydew isn’t one for too many prying questions, but there’s a definite concern to the curiosity furrowing his brow. “You okay, mate?”

 

“Fine fine,” you answer, though certainly aren’t.

 

Too much’s happening at once, and it’s all culminating into a fantastic headache behind your eyes. You knead your thumb and forefinger from the bridge of your nose outward, but it alleviates none of the tension. And the elevator is taking a small age to arrive.

 

“Again, no coffee,” you tell Honeydew when finally the doors ding open and you shove him in.

  
“Sure,” he says. “See you in a few?”

 

“Yeah,” you say, and save face until the doors close.

 

Then you sigh extravagantly and mash the heels of your hands into your eyes. Delayed hangover, you suppose. That empty bottle does not inspire confidence for the rest of the day. _Uuuuuugh_.

 

You ferret out two paracetamol in the kitchen junk drawer and chew them down dry, gagging on the bitter dust, before returning to your room.

 

“Well,” you huff, and get to work.

 

You’re quick about it, always a bit of a fastidious cleaner, and it’s easy enough to shake out the bedding and throw it into the hall for the wash. 15 minutes later, everything’s spick and span, the gin bottles (two, in fact, you found two of the bloody empty things, the other rolled under the bed) tossed in the recycling, but still, you’ve not found your diary.

 

Having spent quite a bit of your pent up energy on the whole cleaning process, you’re less agitated by its loss, but it’s still annoying as hell. You double and then triple search every nook and cranny, even between the boxspring and mattress, all to no avail. You’ve never kept it in any special place, but it’s always been somewhere you remember. Add on to that you can’t recall for the life of you what went on involving two bottles of gin. Did you mess around with something brain damaging yesterday? Maybe a nerve agent? It’s all so very fuzzy.

 

“Fuck me, I guess,” you mumble bitterly, rather fed up with the strangeness of this morning.

 

But you’ll set it to rights. There’s plenty of projects about the labs to occupy the day. You’ll sort out this weird incident of missing things once you’ve gotten back on track. That, and you really don’t trust Honeydew to his own devices in the breakroom.

 

Still terribly, frustratedly unsatisfied, you sulk from your room. Once back in the lift, after you’ve requested ground level, you console yourself with the fact you can, at least, ring up maintenance sometime today and shout at them for a bit. This is a professional facility, dammit, you can’t have things breaking down or blowing up or -

 

A teeth masticating screech shrieks around you, and the lift jerks violently.

 

“Shit,” you hiss, thrown against the left wall from the force of it.

 

“Shit!”

 

A wailing groan resonates from above, and then the floor of the car seems to hover out from underneath you, your interrupted descent now gaining vicious speed.

 

Faster faster, and you’re floating with a split second to grab the support rail and perhaps conceive of a scream, but it’s over far too fast for your lungs, which are crushed and crumpled with the rest of your body as the car collides with concrete and steel and and and -

 

And you know this.

 

Because you’re back.

 

Because of course you are.

 

Because the clones, of course.

 

Of course, you’re back, and you’re in the breakroom with Honeydew and he’s picking up a styrofoam coffee cup, and words clamber against your teeth, urging to tell him off, that the machine’s still broken.

 

Because you’re back.

 

But it doesn’t feel right.

 

“Honeydew?”

 

“Yep?”

 

You shake your head, hoping to clear the fog that must be settled there, but the clarity of your confusion is resolute.

 

“You alright there, pal?” Honeydew asks.

 

“We - I… should be in the cloning bay,” you say, your conviction of wrongness cincturing tighter and tighter. “Did we just come from there?”

 

Honeydew returns his cup atop the stack of others and regards you with a worriedly raised eyebrow.

 

“No?” He says, and takes up dutiful position by your side.

 

Well, at least he’s away from the coffee machine.

 

“Xeph,” he says, and takes one of your hands. “Yer bein’ right weird, you know that? If this’s one ya yer blind experiments, I’d like it if ye’d let me in on it now.”

 

“I - what?” You blink down at your friend.

 

“What?” You repeat. “No, what? This isn’t - we… we were just here, weren’t we? And then we went up to the flat, there was an accident, the elevator crashed and I - I died.”

 

It’s Honeydew’s turn to blink, shocked, at you.

 

“Pal,” he says slowly, “think I’d know if you bloody just died.”

 

You wrench your hand from his and use it to grab a fistful of your hair. The other gesticulates wildly as your pulse ratchets up to a panic.

 

“ _I_ know I did,” you say. “I was in that bloody elevator, and it crashed and I _died_ , okay?”

 

Honeydew takes a step back, and though he looks like he wants to bolt, he tries at calming you anyway.

 

“Listen, Xeph,” he says, “maybe ye just had a rough sleep, bad dreams or something. I promise ye, y’ain’t died. And even if ye did - which I’m not sayin ye did - but even if so, we got the clones, yeah? So yer right back wi’ me! And it’s all fine, right?”

 

You stare at him, unseeing and unthinking but for a strange, blank anger tingling at the nape of your neck.

 

“I died,” you say, cold and certain and furious. “I _died_ , Honeydew, and _you’re_ the one who can’t remember this. _I’m_ not wrong here, okay? I know I died, and I’m bloody well going to get to the bottom of this.”

 

“Xeph - Xephos!”

 

He calls after you, but you’re already storming from the breakroom. It must be something with the masters, some calibration screwing up memory or the reanimating process. You died. It happened. Since instating the cloning project, you’ve died quite a few times, in fact, so you’re well familiar with the feeling, the horror, the strange sort of apathy that accompanies a new iteration of yourself. There’s less of that this time around - in fact none - but then you’re in a bit of a tizzy trying to sort this mishap out, so you don’t have a lot of energy to waste not caring about the fact you’re the only one who seems to know that you’ve died.

 

“Xephos! C’mon, let’s talk this out!”

 

Honeydew continues calling uselessly, but you’ve a faster stride, and you disappear into the stairwell to the sound of his voice steadily fading. You’re not taking the elevator, ten levels down be damned.

 

You risk the stairs two at a time, and make it four flights before you trip. The misstep sends you vaulting forward, headfirst in a battered slump, and your head collides at a sickening angle with the wall, and a snap echoes between your ears.

 

And you’re back, wrong as ever, watching Honeydew take a styrofoam cup from the stack, staring expectantly at you as though he’s waiting for your line in some cosmic script.

 

“Honeydew…”

 

“Yup?”

 

 _I died_ , you think.

 

And then offer aloud, once more, “I died.”

 

Once more, Honeydew blinks at you. Confusion, worry, it’s all there all over again.

 

“What?” He iterates.

 

You say, “I died.”

 

It does not feel as finite as it should.


	2. constantly missing

"Honeydew!”

 

“Yep?”

 

“It’s still out of order, friend!”

 

Your hand freezes around the styrofoam coffee cup as you’re caught in the act. Xeph offers a bemused grin of his own and you dejectedly return it atop the stack of them. Bloody thing’s never working.

 

“S’it ever gonna be in order?” You ask, and Xeph offers a shrug.

 

“Maybe? Anyway’s, coffee’s not quite on the menu today.”

 

Xeph waves his hands about as he talks, and you roll your eyes, amused, because it’s such a him thing to do. Cute, even.

 

“Also you probably shouldn’t stand there. New installments, can’t say how finicky it is yet.”

 

You take a healthy step away from the coffee machine and sidle up, cautiously beside your friend. You’re used to it by now.

 

“Well what’ve ye got planned then, pal,” you ask.

 

“Nothing I really put together,” Xeph explains. “Rather more some red tape Rildenstern and Gosencrantz decided to wrap us up in. Neat little Christmas gift, yeah?”

 

“Not following ye, Xeph,” you say.

 

“Ah, it’s probably nothing,” he says. “Just they’ve put together a holiday party for the staff, but I have a feeling they’re up to something.”

 

“Yeesh, yer a paranoid bugger.”

 

“Well they’ve specifically barred us entry, so -”

 

“What?” Now _this_ has your attention. “Yer tellin’ me there’s some big shindig and we ain’t allowed to jam it up?”

 

Xephos nods, his expression grave.

 

“I’m afraid so, friend,” he says.

 

“Well that’s a load’a bollocks,” you say, and Xephos pats your shoulder, though the hand stays and provides a pretense to steer you both out of the breakroom.

 

“I agree,” he agrees. “And I very much think we should do something about it.”

 

“I’m with ya on that, pal,” you also agree.

 

“What’d y’have in mind? We can take the mechs an’ bust in there and remind em who’s boss.”

 

“Oof, maybe not so drastic, friend,” Xeph says, though his knowing smile suggest similarly diabolical things.

 

You’re not usually on board with his more hairbrained schemes, but not being invited to a party? That’s really annoying, and rude to boot.

 

“Yeah, we’ll need to be a bit more stealthy than that,” Xephos continues, as do you both continue down the vacant, sterile halls of the lab.

 

“Well go on,” you prod your friend in the side with a goading elbow. “Tell me what ye’ve got y’bastard.”

 

“Rude.”

 

“Bugger.”

 

Xeph laughs, and you grin, and then he steers you suddenly to the right and into one of the many unmarked rooms lining the hall. It’s terribly sparse inside save a cold stainless steel stretcher and a rolling cart beside it. You wonder how he remembers which rooms are which at this rate.

 

“So we’ve been testing with these nanobots,” he immediately begins prattling off, crowding you over to the stretcher, and you readily hop onto it. You know what to expect by now.

 

“An’ yer gonna stick me up?” You joke.

 

“Not exactly, friend, but I like where you’re going. Keen test subjects! We’re short on those of late.”

 

You laugh, though it’s hard to keep the nerves at bay. You’re used to it, sure, but that doesn’t mean you exactly enjoy your friend’s poking and prodding. He’s still yet to turn you into a pig, though, and-

 

“There’s the clones in case, anyway,” Xeph says, just about reading your mind.

 

“But yes. Nanobots. Digestible, in fact, so no needles,” he continues, and promptly procures a syringe from the cart.

 

“Ye give me whiplash sometimes, ye know that?” You admonish as he offers a cheeky grin.

 

“Sure sure, friend,” he replies, brandishing a small bottle in another hand. “Far be it from me to get the dosage right.”

 

“Bloody bugger.”

 

But the banter eases your nerves, even as Xeph sticks the bottle, fiddles the plunger on the syringe, and fills it just under halfway with a silvery liquid.

 

“Lay back,” he instructs. “Intravenous was too much a shock, but we still need a pretty fast absorption time else it’ll just affect your organs or something. I think. Haven’t done a lot of tests really, so there’s a lot could go wrong!”

 

“Why would you say that?” You say.

 

Xeph waves his free hand, smiles, shakes his head a bit. All very _him_.

 

“Don’t worry about it, friend.”

 

You don’t.

 

“Go on then.”

 

You do, sighing but falling back against the cold stretcher so Xeph can loom over you.

“Open up.”

 

It tastes like it should be awful, but it’s a barely there sensation as Xeph empties the syringe’s contents into your mouth, and even less of a flavor beyond something vaguely metallic. As you swallow, it occurs to you that you haven’t even bothered to ask Xeph what’s going to happen, what the side effects might be, what the rest of the plan even is.

 

But then your bones invert with sickening cracks you do not quite feel, and your skin stretches tighter and tighter, and the view of the ceiling takes on a yawning panoramic, wider and wider until you can see the cabinets on either wall so clearly in your periphery where before you could only see the fluorescents set into the smooth tiled ceiling.

 

“Perfect!” Booms Xephos, now utterly _looming_ overhead, and you clap your hands over your ears.

 

“This’s extremely convoluted, mate!” You yell back.

 

“Oh you sound bloody adorable, friend,” Xephos laughs, quieter but still absolutely assaulting your eardrums.

 

“You bloody shrunk me!”

 

“Th’hell’d you think I meant by nanobots, Dew!”

 

“I dunno! But let’s stop shouting about it!”

 

“Agreed!”

 

“Well I’m gonna keep shouting!” You keep shouting as Xephos gathers you in his palm. “Cuz I’m small’n all!”

 

“Actually I can hear you just fine if you don’t,” Xephos explains in a whisper that wobbles with laughter.

 

“How’s that? Me lungs are thimbles now!”

 

“Oh don’t let’s bloody get into the logistics, friend. MD and I whipped this up on an evening last week.”

 

“Drunk?” You ask, very rather judgmental.

 

“Me? Yes. MD’s sober two months now I think.”

 

“Well at least one a ya’s ‘ead was out yer arses fer it,” you grumble.

 

“What’s that?” Xephos holds his other hand to his ear, and you stamp the heel of your boot into his palm as hard as you can.

 

“Jeez, kidding, friend. Relax.”

 

“Maybe if ye tell me what’s it all got to do with me being pint sized.”

 

“Ten and a bit centimeters, actually.”

 

“Shut it.”

 

Another flashy grin, and Xeph carries you toward the door in those smooth confident strides of his that suggest something terribly conspiratorial is forthcoming.

 

“Me confidence’s fadin’, pal,” you say, and hope the pathetic volume of your miniscule voice hides the shakiness.

 

“Nearly there,” Xephos says.

 

“There” turns out to be the west wing, and he halts your party in front of what looks like a fuse box.

 

“You’ll sneak in here,” he explains. “I’m pretty sure this leads to the kitchen vent, just follow-”

 

“Hang on hang on,” you flail your tiny hands at his huge face. “Sneak in t’where?”

 

“The party, of course.”

 

“Come again?”

 

Xephos sighs, and rubs at his eye with his free hand.

 

“We need some intel, friend. And I thought this might be a fantastic way to stone a few birds, yeah? We got to test the nano serum, and also we can find out what those big nosed idiots are up to.”

 

“Rich’a you to mention fowl,” you grumble. “This play stinks, mate.”

 

“Noted,” Xeph says. “Now let’s get on with it, yeah? Don’t like wasting time while they’re bloody scheming.”

 

“I’m sure th’feelin’s mutual.”

 

Your cheek earns you a slight bit of manhandling as Xephos opens the mounted box on the wall, revealing it is, in fact, for fuses, but there’s enough room for you to squeeze behind the breaker panel and see the connected wires go snaking back into wall, slithering off into the darkness of the lab’s infrastructure.

 

“Is this how electric faff is s’posed t’be set up?” You call, wary how your voice carries into this veritable corridor.

 

“Does it matter?” Xeph replies. “Just get on will you.”

 

“Yeesh, think ye’d be more polite after doin’ all this t’me.”

 

“Just _get_ ,” Xeph huffs. “And keep straight about a hundred meters, should get you there.”

 

“This’s crazy,” you grumble, but only to yourself. “A’right, fine. See y’inna bit, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Xeph answers.

 

Steeling your anxiety, then, you soldier forward, tromping your way into the vague darkness, with only the electrical wires for tethered guidance. Really, you should have insisted a clearer explanation of the route, and the scheme as a whole, but Xeph’s obviously in one of those spontaneous moods of his, and it does well to humor them until he calms down.

 

“Bloody git,” you mutter.

 

You’re a little over a minute into the trek, and you can see well enough with your keen dwarven eyesight, but still you grip the wires beside you, never straying your hand for more than a second. Maths isn’t your strong suit, but a hundred meters is a long way for someone naught eleven centimeters tall, so, to pass the time, you guesstimate what the length of your stride might be and try your luck at calculating how much longer this is going to take. For starters, a step per second walking speed should be a decent pace to work with, and you slow down just a bit to accommodate that. It’s all well and good for a few steps, nice and even.

 

But then your left foot takes on a mind of its own. It twitches, kicks out, and you stumble forward, and you reach again for the wires. The wires. You reach right for the bloody wires. And there’s vicious copper singing from fingertip to elbow to brainstem to spine to femur to toe and -

 

And you know this.

 

Because you’re back to normal.

 

Because of course you are.

 

Because the clones, of course.

 

Of course, you’re back, and you’re in the breakroom with Xeph and you’re picking up a styrofoam coffee cup, and the urge to grin tugs at your mouth as admonishment twists his own expression because you both know the machine’s always broken.

 

Because you’re back.

 

But something’s wrong.

 

“Honeydew?”

 

“I - what?” You look at your friend, stood so expectant for a chipper reply.

 

“What?” You repeat.

 

“Shit.” You stagger away from the machine. Your selected styrofoam coffee cup flutters to the floor.

 

“Shit.”

 

Wobbling to the nearest table, you collapse, weak kneed, into a chair. Xeph is beside you in an instant.

 

“Is everything okay, friend?”

 

You blink stupidly up at him.

 

“Xeph,” you say, “I’m - I’m real sorry, mate, I - I fucked it up bad. I think… think I touched uh exposed wire or - or summat? I… bloody hell that’s grim.”

 

The words tumble out like they can’t bear to be inside you a second longer, like they don’t belong.

 

“What are you talking about, friend?” Xephos replies, genuine confusion writ in the worry lines across his forehead.

 

“I bloody beefed it,” you say dumbly. “In the - th’damn vent thing or wh’ever. Wasn’t even halfway there, mate. We’ve got some faulty wiring in there cuz it got me good. Hey why aren’t we in the cloning bay by the way?”

 

Very cautiously, Xephos kneels down beside you and takes one of your hands in both of his.

 

“Friend,” he repeats, “ _what_ are you talking about.”

 

“I died, Xeph! Kicked it before I got anywhere near Gosengirtz and Rildycram or wh’ever their bloody names are.”

 

“What?” It seems to be Xeph’s only phrase at the moment.

 

“I _died_ ,” you say. “But it ain’t nothing, cuz I’m back anyway yeah? Yeah.”

 

Xeph is not so easily satisfied, and his confused expression warps into one rife with worry and, is that fear?

 

“Friend,” he says, so very slowly, “you did not die. I think I would bloody know if you just _died_.”

 

“Mate,” you counter, getting pretty fed up, now, with this prank of his, if you can even call it that. “I got electrocuted and that’s bloody that, take it’er leave it.”

 

Xephos shakes his head, like if he disagrees enough it’ll convince you otherwise.

 

“Yes I did,” you insist.

 

“Then why aren’t you in the cloning bay, Dew,” he says quietly. “You know we don’t just… up and spawn back wherever.”

 

He has a point.

 

“Not the point,” you say instead. “And don’t you play dumb w’me. We just came from here, you told me about Gildyrose _whatever_ and how they’ve got some secret party going on that you think they’re scheming up some coup. So you shrunk me with that nano shit you an’ MD made, and then you stuck me in the breaker box in th’ west hall and I got zapped, and here I am an’ you can drop the act now, pal, really startin’ t’piss me off.”

 

Xephos doesn’t move, only blinks at you, owlish and lost, but you see the cogs whirring behind his eyes.

 

After several, agonizing seconds slog by, he stands, straightens the collar of his impeccable labcoat, and says, “Stay here.”

 

With an unceremonious flourish, he turns on his heel and books it out of the breakroom, leaving you to flounder in the wake of utter confusion he’s left behind. Why the hell is he carrying on with this? What possible enjoyment could he get out of this cruel joke? Bloody hell you need a drink.

 

Glancing to your left, the coffee machine looms large, and an idea as bitter as the sludge it spits out on a good day occurs to you. Because maybe if today’s menus is poison or the like, you can prove irrefutably your death and wipe that lost puppy look off Xeph’s face. He’s probably run off to the cloning bay, too, so if you’re quick about it you can beat him to it.

 

So you hope down off your chair, wavering slightly as ghost tingles race up your legs, and your fingertips shiver with something ill remembered when you press the button and wait for the machine to kick on.

 

There’s no waiting.

 

Instead, you fall, and you’re dead in a blaze of heat.

 

And you’re back, confused as ever, hand just itching to take a styrofoam cup from the stack, your eyes staring expectantly at Xephos as though you’re waiting for his punchline in this awful joke.

 

“Honeydew!”

 

You do not answer.

 

 _Shit_ , you think. _Was that a bloody trapdoor over a lava pit? Who the hell does that anymore?_

 

That’s a bit of a mouthful, though, so instead you offer aloud, “I died.”

 

Xephos blinks at you. It’s all there all over again.

 

“What?” He iterates.

 

You say, “I died.”

 

And onto your shoulders settles a weight just as dead, just as infinite.

 

You don’t even know where to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did a draw, too, for one of my fave scenes:
> 
> https://lewis-xephos.tumblr.com/post/183986204084/its-not-a-vore-thing

**Author's Note:**

> i loathe groundhog day as a movie but love the trope, so russian doll did everything for me and then also gave me brain thots abt yogs so,, well here's this, as always i love feedback :>


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